


Cash, Grass or 'Insert Dubious Request Here'

by FancyLadySnackCakes



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Body Horror, Consent, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Gore, Kidnapping, Murder, Oral Sex, Pain, Rimming, goes from dark grey to white on the consent scale, hitchhiking that goes not great, lucas is his own warning, no non-con, rainy car fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-11 15:29:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11151294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyLadySnackCakes/pseuds/FancyLadySnackCakes
Summary: Anon asked: So your fics got me into Lucas/FemaleReader and there is no going back. Your writing is phenomenal, I haven't enjoyed smut fanfics in so long but yours are just so damn good. If you're open for requests still could you do Lucas post infection picking up a cute hitchhiker girl? Its raining, she's in need, he promises to let her sleep at his place until the storm blows over. And the rest I leave in your hands. Make it as dark and crazy as you like. I just love manipulative Lucas so much <3A/N: I made this pretty dark and crazy. Went places I haven't been before, got a t-shirt and some pictures. Hope you like it, Anon. It was fun as fuck to write, which says way too much about me. <3





	Cash, Grass or 'Insert Dubious Request Here'

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anonymous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous/gifts).



The roads weaved and twisted, skimming the gloss of rain-wet asphalt like a serpent on the surface of stagnant swamp water. Both the highways and backroads were full of their own dangers, it was simply a matter of deciding what horror to face. Alligators or cottonmouths: prowlers or swamp folk? Both would have an easy meal of you either way.  

You thought about death when Louis threw you out of the truck, careening down the highway at a generous thirty-five miles an hour before he stuffed the heel of his boot into your soft hip. Falling to a probable end, you thought about all the things you wanted to do but never did. Cliche, yes, however, there was little else like death to make one regret so much in such a short span of time. Mainly, you wished you’d stayed home ten years ago. Home wasn’t ideal, it had never been, but it beat the past decade of spiraling debt and debasement.

If you'd stayed at home ten years ago, you might not be happy, but you wouldn't be stranded in the middle of fuck-nowhere with no phone, cash or means of defense.

Louis was doing you a favor, you thought at first. Laying in a heap, down the soft, wet slope of the barren highway, you’d almost prayed for death. It was one of those moments of pure self-pity that was well indulged until a passing car broke you from the reverie. Survival was a cruel mistress after all, and you picked yourself back up, cradling a sprained wrist as your knees bled freely and your head swam.

You needed a doctor. 

_‘You ain’t gave it up back in Pasadena. Not Jennings, neither. I ain’t wastin’ coffee and cigarettes on some lousy slut that don’t suck dick!”_

_“Oh, no? - well… ya made this happen’- I ain’t responsible. Now, git the fuck out!’_

Should have just swallowed your pride and some jizz, your brain supplied. Thinking of shoulda coulda’s wasn’t gonna get you anywhere, and Louis’ tolerability for you had been a draining hourglass anyhow. This moment had been a long time coming. You could only fake an early period for keeping your legs crossed until the greasy trucker decided road head was better than nothing. It was lucky enough the man wasn’t a rapist, just an asshole. Most of them were. Only a small amount of men eager to pick up a hitchhiker like you were capable of the worst qualities of man and usually, you had a weapon against that.

Said weapon, a stolen pistol, was sitting in Louis’ truck. Without that gun, each potential ride was Russian roulette. In essence? You were fucked.

With shameful resolve, you drag your feet to the edge of the highway, stiff upper lip and one thumb lifted to the heavens. Just the moon and you and the rain. What doesn't pound with that dull ache of pain, is numb and cold. Maybe the next person to stop will be the last piece to the puzzle; maybe it’ll be someone generous and kind, perhaps they’ll know a guy that knows a guy that needs some under the table labor done… then you could feed yourself, find a place to stay without being that lump on someone's couch. For all you know, tonight could be the night where your life changed for the better.

Feeling something like hope, but maybe too raw to call it such, you straighten your arm out, thin your lips and will headlights into existence.

This time will be different, you tell yourself… and this time, it is…

Two cars go by, long enough in between each for your clothes to have soaked through to the skin beneath and the skin to soak down to the bone. All those tiny little nerve endings in your thumb might as well be dead. The nothingness feeling creeps into the rest of your fingers and toes. It feels like an hour, before twin glowing orbs edge close to the shoulder of the road, more so than the others. For a second you worry it means to run you over, but the gradual expansion of double beast eyes are unlike the others that had disappeared as quickly as they’d existed.

You swallow a mix of rain and spit, feeling your nerves fire at what or who lay beyond the headlights. It’s the same feeling as always - a heady mix of apprehension and that cloying hope that rarely flourishes, but worse without your gun. Light exposes the curtain of rain, making each droplet bright; making it into its own entity, something that’s been with you all night even when you’d thought yourself safe in Louis cab.

Forcing a pleasant smile under the harsh light, you lower your arm, hug your elbows and step carefully to the passenger-side window. Dull sound booms as the car brakes - thunder, maybe. Blinking back rain, you lean down as the window is hurriedly rolled down, exposing dry darkness and a gaunt male face. For a second your stomach tightens. He looks like a floating head, surrounded by the black innards of his car, draped in a dark hoodie with the hood laid low over his forehead. The dashboard lights cast red and yellow on the bony contours of his face...

He looks sickly. He looks no more than a couple years older than you, despite the wear and tear.

Feeling a bit at an advantage for once, your fake smile dwindles into one of relief even though the wide, toothy grin he gives you is less than reassuring.

“You some swamp witch or somethin’?” he asks, accent thick enough to remind you of old spaghetti westerns on Sunday mornings even though that creole twang lays amidst most of the syllables.

“No,” you add in a small laugh, spraying rain, “if I was, I’d curse the weather.”

You’re not certain, but you’re kind of sure this is still Louisiana, and his accent just further solidifies your assumption.

“Bit too young to be a witch, ah guess… you wanna ride or what?” There’s an edge to his tone - something that brings back memories of Oakland and certain implications, but another thirty minutes out in the cold and you’ll die, maybe for good this time. 

“Yeah, umm…” you lick away rain as it slides off your lips, ignoring the way his bright eyes dart to your mouth, “how far are you going?”

“Nah, I’mma local. I ain’t going far, but my Mama would tear me apart if ah’ left a girl like you out on the side of the road. She’s a shit cook, but ya know… depends if yur hungry or not.”

You were - are. The last meal you had was waffle house eggs and black coffee early in the morning. More than hungry, though, you're cold and sore, and something you do must expose that because the guy inside the car is reaching over to pop the handle and get the door open halfway before you can reply.

“Get on in.”

Images of burnt dinner, home cooked and dry clothes, maybe a warm couch and some blankets dispel the part of your brain telling you to fucking run. There’s something wrong with this one. You’ve gotten in enough cars to know the warning signs, but he’s thin, and the bags under his eyes look like someone coming out of withdrawals, and you’ve beaten off stronger looking men than him. You’ll be all right, you tell yourself, smiling wide and kind before getting inside the car.

“Roll that window up.”

Laying your throbbing wrist in your lap, you twist and churn the window back up, turning the clean slap of rain into dull tapping. Your companion turns a few knobs on the center console, and beloved heat starts rattle out of the vents. The noise you make is pornographic and uncontrollable. Bad slip, you think nervously, edging the seat to raise your hands towards the warmth.

Too attracted to the heat, you barely notice as the guy starts to dig around in the back seat, making crude grunts and strained curses. That boom startles you again, but when it rains there’s thunder and there’s nothing to be done for it. Another short bang throws anxiety into your chest, but with a grimace, you swallow it down and think about happy things like lazy mornings in bed and dryer-warmed towels while sipping hot chamomile tea… just a little bit of honey and vanilla.

“Here ya go! Haaaha, knew I had a towel back there somewhere. Go on… you look like one ah’ them water rats,” he’s still wearing that menacing grin, but the towel he hands you - though threadbare - is dry and clean. Maybe he’s just one of those unlucky guys that resemble a serial killer… you’ve run into creepy looking people that turned out to be perfectly ordinary on the inside.

Remembering your manners is easier when you have no other option, so your smiles come easily even though you're drenched and hurt. 

“Thank you,” you breathe in genuine thanks, rubbing the towel over the crown of your head, “I really appreciate it. I don’t know what I was going to do- where I was gonna go if you hadn’t pulled over.”

“Yeah…”

Something about the way he talks keeps triggering the alarms in your skull, but you keep up the smiles and pad down what you can of the rain. Some part of tonight will stay stained on you forever, you think, trying to absorb the heat gushing out of the vents as the towel takes some of the wet weight off you.

“Name’s Lucas,” he tells you, staring from the bucket seat with one hand draped over the steering wheel.

Hesitantly, you turn to the side, finding Lucas staring at some point between your hips and chin. Bulging, pale eyes burn into you better than the heater does. It’s unnerving and for a second your brain reminds you the car is still idle… you could jump out and run. You could find someone else, maybe. Or you could be another body rotting on the side of the road.

You’re about to up and tell him your name when that loud bang breaks your inhale. 

The sound rattles and centers behind you - from the trunk. Sirens go off between your temples and a thin layer of fear-sweat breaks out underneath the layer of dried rain.

You fucked this one again…

Lucas’ eyes slide to the backseat, grin still curling his hollowed cheeks, “Don’t you mind that, just a shithead that was givin’ a girl like you trouble. Hey! You like guessin’ games? Cause I got a little theory about you that I’m gonna throw out and don’ hold back, tell me if I get it right.”

Everything but your heart freezes - the fist-sized muscle races so fast it feels like a constant drum instead of a healthy pulse and pound. Lucas bares his teeth for a second longer before his lips form a broad, nasty smile. You fucked this one up - you’re so fucked. The car is still motionless, you think, but you can’t move…

“Some shithead threw you outta their car, didn’t they? Probably cause you wouldn’t give up the pussy or some shit…” he guesses right, and he sees it in your face because the brief curiosity that coats his features falls back into a wide grin.

“Yeah-yea! Oooo… I like a girl with some standards, which! - is why I’m gonna give ya the rundown.” He points a large thumb towards the backseat where the banging had come from - the thunder - and leans back with a level of comfort you envy, “I need one more of ‘em, and you could be number two or - or, and listen here, you could trade the fucker that tossed you out like week ol’ beef and I’ll buy you somethin’ better than my Mama’s chitlins.”

“I can’t breathe,” you admit, feeling so close to passing out that you reach your sprained wrist out to hold against the dash, whimpering as your heart hits hyperdrive. The pain barely registers.

In an act of desperation, you try to turn around for the door handle - attempt to flee - but Lucas lays his hands around you, pulling you in until your outer thigh throbs against the safety break. Your shoulders rattle, elbows bang and beneath your sternum it feels like your heart is falling apart it’s beating so fast. This was somehow worse than the threat of rape you’ve been avoiding this whole time.

His hold is tight and firm, way stronger than you would have ever pegged an anorexic hick for and he’s so close his breath feels as hot as the heater. Tears spring up in your lashes, burning your eyelids and while your joints are locked up in fear, your nerves are on fucking fire.

“Hey… hey! Calm yur tits, dayum,” he breathes, petting your damp shoulder in a manner too friendly and too weird to be anything but ominous. Those wide, frenzied eyes beat down on you. Lucas licks his lips and narrows his gaze over your soggy form, smirking one-sided. “You’re gonna be more fun with ah pink brain than ah black ‘wuhn anyhow. So go on,” his voice drops, turning to bloody gravel, “tell me what that piece of shit was drivin’.”

When you don’t respond, he rolls his eyes and presses you back into the passenger seat, “Look, ya got yourself about ten miles before we hit ah turn… so sit tight, baby. Think it over real hard. Ya wanna be soup, or ya wanna eat some soup? Easy peasy.”

He throws the car into first gear, veers back onto the road and sends you into a hazy state of disbelief. It feels like a very vivid nightmare, but it’s real, he’s real, and the quiet person stuffed into the trunk is very real.

Ten miles… at a steady fifty-five miles an hour.

You can’t think about anything when your heart is still gunning for a heart attack. This is a life or death situation you’ve found yourself in - it shouldn’t be so different than the one Lucas had pulled you out of. You were as good as road kill if no one stopped for you. Southern winters could be just as deadly as northern ones. All that wet chill had a habit of laying eggs of ice in your guts, freezing you from the inside out. In truth, the decision was a no-brainer. You just had to calm down enough to think properly.

The heat helped; working to dethaw the clogging cold from your finger bones and lips.

Five minutes - you look to the digital clock glowing on the radio panel. Rain films and clears with each swipe of the wiper blades, only just barely exposing the dark road speeding ahead of you. The headlights clip the dense trees around the car, painting the road reflectors yellow.

Mindlessness, you whisper to yourself, focusing on the smell of rain and musk… of gasoline and something tangy like bodily fluids. With closed eyes, you listen to the sounds of the rain beating the windshield and the rattle from the heater. The taste in your mouth is stale, but barely a flavor at all and just like that you can count your heartbeat without stumbling.

“Louis was heading to Abbeville… but he was talking about hitting some truck stop before Perry.”

“Yeah, ah know the place,” Lucas replies darkly; a tang of amusement in his tone. Either way, being soup or eating soup, your outlook isn’t great. You may have signed over the rest of your free existence by getting in this car.

The trunk thunks again, sounding much more like a dude trapped inside than thunder. How you’d thought it was a natural side effect of the storm, you don’t know anymore. It’s so obvious what it is now. 

“Heh, guess ah’ need to hit the quarterbacks harder from now on - they take enough blows to the head fer fun after all.”

Sitting there in the passenger seat, clutching the damp towel to your chest, you watch him like you would a poised cottonmouth or a sleepy gator. He’s dangerous and weirdly casual about this whole situation that you can’t even trust him to do his worst… unpredictable was never your friend these past ten years. Your life depended on decoding someone; predicting their intentions before they become realized. Lucas wasn’t something you could wrap your head around, at least not yet.

The rain picks up when he spins the car down Highway Eighty-Two, driving head on into the direction of pounding rain. Nothing cuts through the harsh droplets, not even your pained whimper as your sprained wrist bounces against a dip in the road. Lucas doesn’t look at you, just eyes the street with a thinned expression and buggy eyes. Ghosting stubble makes him look more filthy than he seems. Despite the sight of him and the bruised bags under his eyes, the only rank smell you can detect is mild and old as if it comes from some antiquated stain set into the floor. Spilled soda or rotten food, maybe.

“What are you going to do to them?” you ask, not sure where you get the nerve, but maybe it’s the torrent of rain hitting the car that makes the world seem small and condensed, almost safe. White noise was supposed to calm a person's nerves - the constant rail of water fits that category well enough.

“Gonna hatch ‘em like fresh eggs. Evie needs somethin’ to play with after the last batch dried out and Mama’s runnin’ low on offal.”

Cannibals…

Whatever Lucas had planned for you couldn’t be as bad as being eaten by hillbillies, but the whole idea seemed too surreal to take seriously. This whole situation just felt like a cross between the waking and sleeping world. Could be that you hit your head on your tumble out of Louis’ truck, but you weren’t sure concussions were suppose to cause the world to twist like this.

“You eat people,” you state it like a fact and nothing more, wrinkling your nose as if it’s a gross idea and not a morally debased one.

“Naw, not me. Deadhead parents do… pretty sure it gets ‘em off by now.”

A long stretch of nothing but rain and chugging engine follows, which allows you enough time to gather your resolve when Lucas merges into the turn-off, twisting the wheel around until he cuts right through a red light. The car jolts, moving you towards him, jostling your wrist. A dull ache starts forming down the side of your neck, fitting under the cap of your skull.

In a weird stroke of luck or bad luck, Louis’ truck is there, parked along the back of the parking lot.

Designated parking spots lay empty aside from one, which holds a state troopers wagon; headlights casting a shine through the fat drops of falling rain. The wet night, from a visual standpoint, is beautiful. Maybe it’s the concussion, but each glimmer of light seems to sparkle. You were about lost in the sight of it all when Lucas parks the car, yanking on the emergency brake before throwing you a heavy-browed look.

Your eyes lock for a belated moment - something odd passing between you both that leaves you on the cusp of asking something incredibly inappropriate - but he plasters on that horrific grin and grabs your throat.

All casual kidnapping aside, this is where your lizard brain finally takes over. Even though it makes you cry out, you use both your hands to fend him off; pulling at his palm and forearm as his grip tightens.

Spittle shines on his lower lip as his chest barrels against your own, shoving you down into the car door, making your spine curve unnaturally.

Try as you might, you can’t scream around his grip, but your eyes enlarge, darting to the steering wheel.

Fuck, you think, gagging as his thumb digs into the front of your throat. You kick a leg out, bump your skinned knee under his ribs, getting a short grunt out of him before slamming your heel on the horn.

The noise lingers just long enough before Lucas shoves your leg away, spreading your thighs until he slots between them. Your hips collide - intimate and unplanned - and despite the situation and the black growing like encroaching webs around your peripherals, you moan and blush.

Somewhere you hear a car door slam shut and Lucas - breathing hard against your face - turns his head to look out the windshield. It’s blurry, but you can see the cop hunched in the rain, a jacket-coated arm hovering over the brim of his hat.

“Y..yeaaah’haaa…” you wheeze, managing a shitty smile while Lucas sneers.

“Figured you fer a smart girl, but ah’ guess that was hoping for too much, huh?!” he snarls, throwing you, head bouncing back, into the rain-bubbled window pane.

Though you pant and gasp, rubbing the hot skin of growing bruises, you find yourself smirking. Get fucked, asshole, you think to yourself. Ain’t no amount of ‘good ol’ boy system’ that’ll keep this officer from arresting him, not when he’s got a guy locked in the trunk.

He’s so fucked, you think.

The officer taps the butt of his flashlight on Lucas’ window, and before he rolls it down, you share another solid look. Lucas glares as you grin; feeling like you’ve won the night and your life back, but for all your street smarts you should have known your stroke of luck wasn’t any more than a tease. You weren’t getting out of this car, not with this officer… and -

You’re shocked when the window rolls down, and the young, clean-shaven cop doesn’t even get a chance to open his mouth before Lucas snarls, taking a fistful of short hair and chin and promptly snaps the officer's neck. Shocked, yes, but you shouldn’t be - should have been ready for it. The wet pop and crack of bone and tendon stay with you long after the cop slides to the ground.

Dead in the rain.

“Welp,” Lucas grins, back in character, it would seem, “guess we could call it a night with the pig fucker here but ya knooow… we’re here and why be responsible for one death when you can take credit fer two?!”

Your eyes widen as the implication sets in. If not for the car horn…

Oh god.

You shiver as the open window sucks out the last of the heat, spraying tiny beads of moisture over Lucas’ sleeve as he tips his head down towards you, watching the way you start to hyperventilate with detached interest. There's a severe edge to his jaw, highlighted against the black depths of the hoodie, and it makes you want to piss yourself.

“What’cha say, baby? You gonna be a good girl fer me now?”

He has to snap his fingers in your face a few times before you manage a nod, not knowing what else to do but agree and keep still. Your legs are still splayed open, something you realize as his eyes skim down the curved length of your stomach, down your groin and thighs. Pale blues settle on one knee cap; covered in torn, stained denim. He lays a large palm on your lower thigh. Something about the length of his fingers seems wrong - too long and sturdy to be natural.

You hold your breath - heart skipping beats - as he fingers a lengthy tear of denim with his thumb and forefinger. Without warning he rakes his nails inside torn flesh, making fire and pain resound up and down your leg.

“Fuck!” you cry, jerking but going no more than a couple inches thanks to the firm grip he wraps around your thighs. Heat - something sticky and fear-soaked - settles in your lower belly, spreading down between your thighs where it tingles in a mix of panic and intimacy. You’re not turned on… but the position doesn’t stop your body from preparing for the possibly that this will become a rape; lubricating your cunt in case the worst should happen.

Nothing happens, though.

Lucas releases your thighs with a faint chuckle, rolling his wrists until they crack, “Fuck, baby - at this point it don’t matter, but I’mma guess that’s yur man’s truck.”

He tips his chin at the eighteen-wheeler; head loose on his neck. It’s hard to read him with the hood over his head. The shadows it casts throws you off, but when he gives you a critical look, you know better than to stay quiet this time.

“Yeah, that’s his. He’s got my pistol with him, and there’s a magnum in the glove compartment,” you tell him, running your mouth, quick and erratic and only wonder once you’re done why the hell you bothered to warn him. Louis was a fucker, sure, but he didn’t plan to eat you or rape you… or whatever it is Lucas has planned. Though, to be fair, throwing you out of a moving truck at thirty-five miles an hour was as good as murder.

Yeah. Actually, scratch that empathy shit. Fuck Louis.

Asshole deserved to die. Maybe, with some luck, he and Lucas would kill each other, and you could drive somewhere far away, sell this shit car to some shady junker and find a better way out of this life - out of this incredibly dangerous and stupid situation.

With a gleaming, toothy grin, Lucas grasps your wrist and pulls, tearing a scratchy yelp out of you.

“It's-fuck! That hurts!” You curse and snarl, following after him before Lucas drops your wrist like it's a striped snake. For a second he looks unsure, maybe upset, but the tension in his brow could also be anger. He's new - unfamiliar - and while you don't want to be around long enough to know his facial cues, you have a feeling you're going too.

“Shit, your buddy sure did fuck you up. It broken?”

“No,” you whimper, cradling the sick pulsating pain, “it's just sprained, but I felt it bend back when I hit the ground.”

“Mmm, flexible little bitch ain't cha?” He comments, giving you another toe to chin look with his lower teeth stuffed into his upper lip.

You watch him open the car door, reaching down around where the cops body rests. As rain soaks into his hoodie, making the dark fabric pitch, you look around the car for something that’ll hurt but find nothing but a plastic fork and an empty soda can.

Lucas grunts. His shoulder bunches; sodden fabric glistening under the parking lot lamps. A pair of handcuffs catches the downturned lights, and with inexplicably tender care, he tightens a cuff around your pounding wrist.

“Yup,” he grunts, licking his teeth as you hold your breath, mouths too close.

Thunder, real thunder this time, echoes above, rattling the inside of the car and your chest while Lucas handcuffs you to the assist handle above your head. With the pain in that wrist, it'll take a desperate measure to make you fight the cuff. It's tight enough to keep you secure but loose enough not to cut. The skill Lucas shows in his containment of you, makes you think he's done this before…

Rain keeps pouring, and your heart keeps pounding while Lucas makes short work of getting the fallen officer into the back seat. There's something sour trailing behind the corpse… and you realize - feeling cold - that it's piss and maybe the guys terminal bowel movement.

“Whatcha say, now? Still wanna see yur man skull fucked or what?” Lucas asks, hovering halfway inside the car with his arms spread open against the dash and headrest respectively.

If this is a last request, given that by tomorrow morning you’ll be dead or worse, then… well, it's one less asshole in the world.

“Yeah, make him soup,” you tell him. Your answer seems to do something physical to him. Lucas shivers, watching you hotly under the edge of his hood. Those bags under his eyes sink deeper; cheekbones jutting and it doesn't shame you to admit it's terrifying.

That look he gave you continues to haunt you as if he'd stained the backs of your eyelids with it. You blink, but it's still there. Try as you might to focus on Lucas’ tall, lanky figure stomping through the glow of falling rain, you still see those eyes boring into you.

He becomes a hunch black line in the distance, peering up into the truck before hopping back down with a fountain splash of rainwater.

When he disappears into the truck stop, you give your cuff an experimental tug and whimper. Who knows how much time you have, or if Lucas is ever gonna come back, but you breathe in and out steadily.

It's gonna hurt - it's going to hurt real bad, but there's an emergency phone at every truck stop, and if you can suffer the pain of a broken wrist then you can make it there and get help. What's a broken wrist, or the pain, compared to whatever this creep has planned? He's a murderer. He killed the cop currently going stiff in the back seat.

For some reason, the fact that your mind latches onto the dead body decides your next move. Quickly, you fumble at your bloody knees, tear away the flaps of denim and fold them into a thick strip. You take a sweet cozy breath, savoring existence without pain and bite down on the denim. Coppery blood and mud explode across your taste buds, but everything takes a back seat as you lift up - vomit at the back of your throat - and bear back down with all your weight.

What a stupid, terrible fucking idea…

The pain is indescribable. Compared to getting shot in the kneecap, you're sure it pales, but right now your whole right side is a scattering network of pain. You don't know if the bone snapped or if you dislocated something, but your thumb is one thick brand of pain and your wrist…

“M’mmmohhhmy…” you cry, sobbing in long helpless breaths. The cuff keeps your swimming thumb pinned between your palm and tightly joined fingers.

Tears stream down your face, as fat as rain and your howls of pain beat the thunder roaring outside the car as waves and waves of shocking pain lick and tear at bone and tendon.

Beyond the impenetrable barrier of rain, a gunshot goes off.

Clawing at your elbow, trying to lessen the pain somehow, you call out for your mother, long dead, and cry all the harder. After screaming for her does nothing, you start begging for Lucas. You start pleading for him to make the pain go away.

“Luh’luh’lucaaasss!!!” you scream, pawing at your raised forearm as the pain starts to make you dizzy. You gasp, inhale ragged breath after ragged breath until the pain grows hot and dull; pounding in time with your heartbeat.

Stomach acid smacks the back of your tongue, but you swallow it down with a whine.

Minutes later - hours as far as you know - pass before your waterlogged eyes catch a black figure coming out of the truck stop. Too far away to see who's dragging who, but only one silhouette is moving. The other shape is catching gravel as they're drug by a leg along the rippling parking lot. Rain curtains the scene of black. It isn't until the halfway mark that you notice the drape of a hood and that shoulder hunch Lucas has…

He opens the backseat, chuckling… no, giggling like a fiend - like he's in on some joke that no one else had gotten yet. Licking away snot and tears, you swallow and try to stop the tears from pouring silently down your face as he shuts the back door and opens the driver's side up.

Lucas skids into the bucket seat and slams the car door shut so hard you sway, jostling whatever fucking mess you've made of your wrist. As you sob, he finally looks over.

You see his face and just like that the pain’s fucking gone because he has a hole in his head and why the fuck! - the fuck does he have a hole in his fucking face!?

“What the-” he starts, remaining eye catching sight of your bleeding wrist but you open your mouth and scream like a horror movie director’s wet dream, cutting him off.

There’s bit of eye socket gleaming from the corrugated light coming through the windshield. The reflection of rain droplets and skinny rivers only adds an otherworldly texture to the mess of hanging flesh, white goopy bone and something gelatinous enough it could have been his left eyeball.

The other side of his face puckers in annoyance. Blood dribbles down, thin with rain water.

He’s shot… Louis shot him in the fucking head. You know he got Lucas with the pistol and not the magnum because the entrance wound looks like it blew out when the bullet hit the back of Lucas’ skull. No exit wound. Just a bunch of chunky gray matter dangling amidst red pigments.

When your throat dries out, and your scream turns raspy, Lucas is still there, looking at you with a disgruntled look and that one eye narrowed, “Startin’ to think you deserve whatever the fuck you did to that wrist ah’ yours, baby.”

He leans in with a little key and releases the cuffs. The pain comes back anew with the expulsion of pressure. You curl, forehead shoved above the glove compartment and heave with fresh sobs, feeling your head pound and throat burn in conjunction with the pain shattering inside your arm.

Lucas makes a strange noise, something between a groan and a sneer once your sobs lessen.

“You-you… face,” you manage, looking at where Lucas sits precariously in his seat, watching you. You look at him as if you’ll find a reset button for today. Like, if you could go back in time, there would be so many things you’d do differently. How was he even talking?

How, the fucking fuck, was he fucking alive?!

“Ooh, yeah. Messy, ain’t it? But ah! - The worst’ll be looking tip-top by the time we get home. And ugh, speaking of home, you’re gonna have to grin and bear it cause I didn't’ bring none of that green shit with me. Don’t need it anymore… and I wasn’t plannin’ on bringing a girl like you home wit’ me.”

Lucas adjusts the rearview mirror, flashing you a bloody, broken-toothed smile and starts the engine. The trunk bangs, booming like thunder again and as the car moves through the parking lot you whimper and moan. The pain becomes a separate entity all it's own.

You, Lucas and The Pain drive through waves of pouring rain. Thunder scatters the heavens, running tremors in your chest and down your shoulder, igniting more pain.

“Wonder if me pissin’ on you would work,” he says; sounding more like he’s talking to himself than you. A bump in the road bounces your head against the dash, but you don’t care as long as you can keep your wrist and hand from moving too much. Lucas makes another turn, slower this time - almost considerate - before picking up speed again.

“I could blow ah load on it, maybe.”

No, you wince, swallowing back a well of vomit as the pain starts to ebb into something pulsating and disgusting.

“... wouldn’t even take too long. I’ve been hard since ah’ picked your ass up, thought about shoving my tongue up there a few times, but if you told Evie…”

You stare down into the darkness at your feet, blinking away dribbles of tears as he talks to himself.

“... bitch would make me tear my own balls off, some sort of dumb moral code she’s got. Stupid little kid.”

With a swallow, trying to work on a plan despite the pain, you lick away tears and voice your dark thoughts between your battered knees, “I could promise not to tell her.”

“Hmm?” he questions as if forgetting you were even there.

With precise movements, you straighten your spine, cradling your hand and wrist against the soft, more forgiving cushion of your chest. Eyes on him, you steady your nerves and say again, “I could keep it between us. Evie doesn’t have to know.”

Without taking his eye off the road, Lucas’ lips curl into a devilish grin, “This one of them tit fer tat things? - or does the hole in the head get you wet?”

“Neither,” you lie, blowing out a pained breath, “if you wanted to fuck me that bad you could have already done it.”

The smirk drops into a deep frown, “Ain't gonna rape ya… jus’ cause I think about it don't mean I'm gonna do it. Lots of guys get hard thinkin’ about stuff like that.”

He was right about that, but from what you knew most of the guys that had thoughts like that ended up doing terrible things to men and women alike. Lucas sounded like someone making excuses, but the conviction in his tone when he said he wasn't a rapist seemed honest.

Carefully, you settle back against the seat and car door, studying the impressive line of his jaw - the bulbous hook of his nose and the broad ridge of his brow. Just beyond his profile, there’s a mess of gore and emptiness - the thought of which makes you want to puke. Somehow you'd have to suffer that between your legs… or dribbling above you.

“If I let you stick your tongue down there, would you leave me at a hospital… or some place they can fix this?” You gesture to your hand. The blood has dried where the skin tore the cuff, and there's a worrying darkness spreading that must be the start of a hematoma. It scares you…

There's a breathless edge to Lucas’ voice when he tells you, quite plainly, “I can fix that shit. Done! What else ya want?!”

That wasn't what you were implying. It takes scrambling through chaotic thoughts to come up with another plan of action, “I ugh… I’ll need some new clothes and girl stuff, like shampoo and razors and-and tampons, lots of stuff you don't wanna deal with.”

“Pffff-fuck that! I’ll jus’ steal all of Zoe’s crap for ya. Before Evie and Mia showed up, she’d buy all that junk in bulk. What else ya need?”

You needed to get him somewhere public, somewhere you could make a run for it - a place where if he caught you, you could scream and gather a crowd. Lucas already proved he could kill, cold-blooded and remorseless… couldn't be killed easily either.

A department store full of people, that's what you need, or an ER night shift prepared for a mess.

As the wet roads glide underneath the car tires, you sit in your sanctioned corner where it's warm and dry, where the soft smell of rot begins to overpower the clean scent of rain. It's there that your mind comes up empty.

“I…” you try, willing something smart and sneaky to follow the word, but nothing comes. Lucas keeps on driving, shifting that full eye in sharp motions as the rain starts pouring down in massive white sheets; thick enough to obscure the road.

Beside you, Lucas grumbles, “... can’t drive in this shit storm.” He veers off the shoulder of the highway until soft grass and uneven terrain rattle the car. Hot knives stab from elbow to fingertips, bringing back forgotten pain to join the more resilient throbbing.

“Gawd’damnitt!”

The moist growl he emits makes you falter, swaying with the car until the brakes jolt you forward enough that you gasp in bright discomfort. Those spider webs of darkness weave back around your peripherals. A warm, almost welcome glow crawls at the corner of your eyes but with a booming crack of real thunder, the webs recede, and the world comes rushing back; clear as wet crystal.

Lucas yanks on the parking brake and crosses his arms with a huff as the sky drops down around you both. Quietly, as he glares at the rainwater falling off the windshield, you twist your neck back, peering into the dark depths of the backseat. It’s barely more that a wall of black, but there's the barest stroke of light brushed over pale curling fingers. They're frozen solid in Rigor Mortis. Something dark marks the nails, making them look diseased.

You inhale and try to ignore the moldy smell of the dead men hiding in the shadows.

Lucas shifts close, looking over at you with a bored expression. The hole in his head isn't gone, but it's smaller. The edges of rented tissue curl inwards like reverse peeling paint.

He's inhuman… a monster or something alien - something wrong.

Dreams of skin-bags, manufactured around alien body snatchers makes your mind wander to the lewdly cliche and flamboyant. Maybe he's immortal. Maybe someone grew him in a lab, spliced him with frog DNA and saw what all would grow back… or what wouldn't.

“What are you?” You ask, hugging your wounded hand between your breasts. Underneath the softness you can feel blood pumping, making you feel weak and cumbersome. That point of too much stimulus, not enough food and no hope, is starting to reach a climax.

A manic, unhinged laugh tumbles out of Lucas, setting the thin hairs along your body on end.

You're too afraid to pass out. Too worried you’ll wake up tied to something sturdy; your chances for freedom all missed. Wasted.

Lucas picks at a loose clump of something spongy on his cheekbone, curling his lips with mild disgust, and flicks it into the backseat. Against the glow of the dash, he looks like a movie monster. Red tainted skin covers sunken features, marred by a crippling wound. A squirming, sloppy rope of tissue begins to curl and divide within the depths of the chasm. It's only when a dollop of white starts to form amidst the thinning tendrils that you look away, unwilling to witness an eyeball regenerate before you own eyes.

“I’ll tell ya what I am, baby. I'm special, and I’ll show ya - give you some… heh… hands-on examples,” Lucas informs you, catching your gaze as a half-formed eye narrows at you. His tongue sneaks out, wetting the blood staining his lower lip and grins with all his teeth intact again. “Once ah get you home, Mama’s gonna get all fucking worried about my honor and shit. Go on, what else you need? - cause I wanna taste some pussy before ah’ get you home.”

You only hear half of what he says, too focused on the knitting gore of his face. Chunks of sloppy viscera fall from within the pull and tug of skin as if being rejected as new matter forms. A bubble grows and pops, leaking an off-yellow goop down the edge of his nose.

“...’sides, if I ain't careful the old man’s gonna get a whiff of ya. He’s got an appetite to rival a mess of gators.”

That vomit you'd been trying to hold back starts to tickle the back of your throat at the pustules writhing together over his face, coupled with the apathetic expression he wears, the nausea is overpowering.

“I'm gonna be sick,” you blurt out, covering your twitching lips with a palm. Lucas rolls two different eyes and thumbs the car door. The car unlocks just as the puke rises and under a torrent of falling rain, you lean outside and throw up.

The cold chill soaks through your wet hair, adding to the shake of your body as you gag and heave. Thick threads hang around your cheeks. Water slips off your nose, past your chin, washing away the acid.

You spit and swallow a mouthful of rain, swishing out the sour tang.

Back inside the car, Lucas has that threadbare towel held out for you. The hole in his face is filled in, but uneven and… moving unnaturally, as if tiny insects are building him back up under the skin. He smiles, looking too human and sane to be wearing the moving scar and holding you captive.

“Better out than in, wouldn't wanna have you doin that shit on my head or anythin’. I like some nasty shit, but not that nasty.”

“Jesus fuck,” you breathe, “this isn't happening… you're not-I can't…”

“Shhh,” he hushes, moving like some shadowed predator towards you. The dash lights throw contours down his neck, exposing a protruding Adam's apple and tight tendons. For that moment, when he'd been traversing the truck stop parking lot, you'd glimpse how tall he was. Taller than you, much taller, with long limbs and though his clothes sagged around a thin frame, he was powerful, and he's coming at you with his head bowed low, watching you under intense brows. The skin around his left eye has fallen still, but something still looks wrong.

When he blinks, that eyeball shifts around in a forty-five-degree turn, making you whimper in panic. Lucas smiles; lips parting for his tongue to peek through with clear intent.

Fuck. You tense and shiver as skin-warmed rainwater falls like tears down your cheeks.

Lucas’ tongue slides along your chin, pulling off beads of moisture. A sound, like a shameless orgasm, tumbles out of his mouth as he goes in for another lick, sucking at a thin patch of skin just under your jaw. Though you're scared and disgusted, his mouth is hot and his tongue… fuck… it feels too long, just like his fingers.

You exhale noisily, clutching your wounded hand and squeeze your eyes shut. Lucas' hands - those fucking fingers - move a heavy lock of hair away from your neck, making room for more hot, sluggish kisses that leave your nerves tingling.

Against your throat, Lucas sounds demonic as he hisses between his teeth, “You taste real fuh’kin good.”

Stale, hot breath heats up your face, down the sodden collar of your shirt and, as if reaching some limit, Lucas growls. His hands reach down to the clasp of your jeans, panting loudly along your chin as the button slips open and your zipper unfolds. It's not possible, but you think you can hear that fatal sound even under the storm.

It takes effort to remove your pants. You stay locked up with your elbows shoved against your sides and your hands frozen against your tits as Lucas grunts, peeling damp denim off your hips. Soft scabs peel off your knees as the fabric drags down, but the pain is nothing now - not after fucking up your hand in that cuff.

“Ah, gawd… fuck me, baby. Ah’ can smell it already,” he says, licking his lips as he wads up your jeans and sneakers into a bundle.

As if finally noticing your panicked state, Lucas pauses. His eyes shine red and smooth; searching for something in your posture, but you shift a leg to lessen the ache of your hip against the parking brake and just like that his attention is captured by what he really wants.

It's weird… but while you'd rather not have his hands on you, or his mouth for that matter, this is better than having to take a cock for a little mercy down the line. It's unreal, but Lucas’ teeth touch over his tongue and a perverse, giddy look beams between your thighs. He looks lascivious and depraved.

“Is it,” he blinks, hooking a finger into the wet crotch of your panties.

Unabashed, he tugs the fabric aside with a curious look, and a slow grin splits his face.

“Oooh…” he slurs, “oh’oh fuuuck, baby - fuck me, would ya look at this. Smooth an slippery! Ya sure you didn’t fall outta the sky or somethin’?”

“...no,” you exhale, feeling dry air play between your wet folds.

Lucas throws you a smile that might have been handsome if he wasn’t so starved and manic looking - if there weren't so many teeth and that dimple of red light bouncing in his eyes. A loud crack of thunder booms and the quarterback in the trunk struggles loud enough you can’t feel your heart pound as Lucas pulls you into his lap.

His leg stretches out into the darkness beyond the passenger side foot room, bracing with a snarl. Your shoulders smack against the car seat, neck bent wrong, but with two strong hands wrap around the curve of your legs, he pulls your ass up against his stomach, letting your head rest in the body-warmed leather seat.

The torn skin on your knees stings, but it’s your hand you keep cradled close - upper body rigid - as your legs fall open around his shoulders. It’s cramped, and he’s tall and lanky and long-limbed, but his spine curls and with one hand lifting your leg up and the other supporting the weight of your middle back, Lucas dips down and swallows as much of your cunt as he can.

Obscene sounds of wet slurping hit your ears over the long rumble of thunder. A hiccup leaves your throat as Lucas' tongue strikes up and down your folds, lapping away the fluids that have been building since he’d first had your throat in his hand.

Lucas groans, eyes rolling back in his head. He sucks your folds back, releasing the flesh with a moist pop. You shiver - stomach muscles bouncing.

Startled, you shut your eyes as he gazes at you over your mons. No, you can’t look at him while this is happening. You won’t.

“What’s yur name, again?” he asks, breath gushing over your cunt.

Heat rushes into your face, and though it hurts, you squeeze your wrist in your palm and whimper as the pain works to distract you from the lazy slip and slide of his tongue as it explores your cunt.

“Come’on… tell me,” he slurs around a tasting tongue.

You whimper.

Lucas laughs, and you feel every vibration. Another squeeze to your busted hand allows you a short reprieve from the pleasure, but when Lucas’ lips latch over your clit, there’s something so fucking wrong about it that your brain triggers sensation over thought and, in an instant, you deflate and moan out your name. There’s no getting around it - it feels good, and it’s better than the pain, and with each furious suck and hard lick of his flat tongue, you give in.

He’s good at it too… and when he releases your tender nub long enough to growl your name into your flesh, it’s even better.

For someone who looks like he’d have to pay for a girl to give him a second look, Lucas knows what to do. Most guys you’ve known wouldn’t do this… wouldn’t choose it over getting their dicks wet nor show such enthusiasm. He’s a murderer; sadistic and fucked up in so many ways, and yet the things he does with his mouth are deplorably decadent.

“... yes, yes… fuck,” you gasp, squeezing your eyes shut as his mouth opens up over your cunt again, sucking noisily while his tongue flicks and darts down. He skims the inside of your cunt, rakes his teeth down your clit and-

“No!” you jerk, yanking back but Lucas just laughs high and loud, holding you tightly to his chest. His tongue slides back down - down the crack of your ass and swirls that tight ring of sensitive flesh until you sob and tears spring up at the corner of your eyes. It’s humiliating… or it is at first. All it takes is his thumb shoved over the hood of your clit and slow, solid circles to match the terrible strokes of his tongue, for you to relax and groan.

Lucas or the sky, you can’t tell anymore, growls… thunders and with wild eyes watching you, he shoves his tongue through that tight ring of flesh. He hums and tears slip down the sides of your face as you tense and thrust up into his mouth.

There's no pain - it's gone, only to be replaced by wet bliss. Lucas’ shameless pleasure in doing the unspeakable removes your own, leaving you to roll your hips back and forth, curling your stomach as your clit starts to ache under his thumb.

You've always been hard to get off. Sex was messy and worthless when you didn't even get off unless you were bringing yourself there. Masturbation was easier.

But you're gonna come. You can feel it as it tickles inside your lower belly and starts to expand. Lucas thrusts his tongue inside your ass, grunting and groaning as his teeth dig into you.

“... fuck!” The dark rolling heat of your orgasm hits you hard. 

With a startled gasp, you leave your wounded hand over your chest and reach out for something to hold onto. Your fingers skim his knuckles - dug into your thigh - and with shaking knees, you grip his wrist and let yourself go.

Pleased grunts leak out of Lucas’ mouth as his tongue delves deeper, slips free and leaves a trail of spit through your folds to suckle on your clit again. Soft, gentle suction extends your climax… leaves you limp and boneless and totally fucked in both mind and body.

As limp as a ragdoll, your legs fall open while Lucas lowers you down into his lap. The angle makes you back throb with discomfort, but it's not painful enough to make you move. Everything feels warm and soft and relaxing. Endorphins leak into the swollen flesh around your wrist, and with a tiny smile, you let your eyes fall closed.

Rain pelts the car and windshield. Somewhere, beyond the cotton in your ears, thunder cracks, and roars.

When next you open your eyes, it's to the dim - red lit - image of Lucas smacking his curled fist around a long, dribbling cock. The sight makes your tongue swell in your mouth. It's like something out of a neon dream.

“Gonna-” he gasps and rakes his teeth over his tongue, “... uhhnn shit.” Lucas stares at you with wide, lidless eyes and licks the glaze of your fluids off his lower lip. His teeth catch the glow of the dashboard lights, and with a line of tension cutting between his brows, you watch him grimace and cum.

Thick strings of jizz fly out of the raw tip of his dick. His free hand digs so hard into your thigh that you grunt as globs of hot cum fall between your legs. One gush lands on your elbow, sliding thick and warm to stain your shirt.

“Asshole,” you say without realizing you'd insulted him out loud until Lucas starts to chuckle, breathless and mirthful.

“It was just as tasty as that pussy of yours too,” he teases. The orgasm has made you daring because you don't think twice about glaring at him. If anything, showing a bit of spine sets this guy off in a good way. Looking down at you, Lucas groans low with a final pulling squeeze to his cock. A little leak of cum slips and strings down into the puddle cooling in the divot of your navel.

“By the way,” he pants, swallowing thickly, “you're welcome in advance. This is some Grade-A Jamba Juice right here an’ it's all for you!”

“Yeah, right,” you mutter, still dazed.

He dips two sticky fingers down along your stomach, pulling up a thick coating of jizz. Those messy digits move towards your mouth and without thinking you smack his arm away and curse. “Fuck off!”

“Don’ be like that, open wide and let me give it to ya. Promise it’ll fix that watermelon you got growin’ there.”

His cum looks thick, edged in red light and vaguely poisonous. You've accepted what you saw tonight - a man grow his face back. Bone, brain and all. He's not natural. Lucas is wrong, and something inside him is unlike anything you have inside yourself. You're confident that opening your mouth for him, letting him feed you dollops of fresh cum, will change you.

“I don't care,” you tell him, laying your fingertip over the swollen, tender flesh of your hand, “... you’re not gonna put that shit in my mouth.”

Lucas looks annoyed for a second before he smiles, one of those smiles that intellects get when you say something stupid; smug… that’s the smile on his face. Instead of arguing with you, or wiping the cooling spunk off your stomach, Lucas shoves those two cum-saturated fingers inside your cunt, swift and deep. He titters as you twist and howl, tightening his grip on your thigh as his fingers wiggle inside you.

“... you fucking asshole,” you deadpan, watching your future play out before your eyes - of giving birth to some tangled hellspawn in the backwoods of Louisiana… or dying slowly from whatever plague he’s developed. Flashes of growing fat with a child as Lucas feasts on your cunt day in and day out pound at the forefront of your mind. Vivid, depraved visions swell inside your skull.

You lay there, holding your wrist with your eyes clamped shut as Lucas spoon feeds cum through your wet folds, fingering you with monster hands, chuckling darkly as he does so. His thumb brushes your clit, and though it feels good, panic has started growing like a pipeline rupture; drenching you in sweat.

“Jus’ ah bit more, baby… mmm’m’m! Yeahhhh, you startin’ to feel like you want another go. Suckin’ on my fingers,” Lucas’ voice drops to a low whisper, sounding boyish and lonely, “I always wanted to do this.”

As the terror in your chest starts to swarm, you can’t stop your mad search for pleasure, honing in on the way the edge of his thumb digs under your clit. His fingers open and curl, thrusting deep and gradually a warmth starts to form.

The world erupts in an atom bomb of thunder, shaking your body and the car. A fire starts between your thighs as if Lucas had been feeding your flesh acid, but… oh, fuck… it burns sweetly. It leaks out into your belly, spreading down your thighs until your knees begin to tingle.

“Feels good don’t it? Thought ah was gettin’ my dick sucked when I shot it up, ‘cept my whole body was a cock, and I was really fucked up then.”

Fucked up. Then? - You can’t think about anyone being more fucked up than Lucas. He’s a special breed of fucked and, without a care, you let him fuck you up more. It’s not like a hit of ecstasy… no, it’s better. Heat - soft heat - like a million tongues starts teasing your flesh. Delicate and rough; violent and unrelenting. You tip your head back, arch your spine and gasp in bliss.

Women are a slave to their bodies, some asshole once told you. That was the first fight you ever lost, but it had been worth the beating to see that man wipe snotty tears off his face, nose broken and embarrassed in front of all his little fuckin’ friends. You’re not a slave to your body… you’ll never be that woman on the side of the road, turning tricks to keep her man happy just so he’ll pretend to love her. Never will you degrade yourself for a man and his cock or his tongue.

When Lucas leans in, fingers stuffed up inside your cunt and begs, “I wanna stick it inside… let me? Ah’ promise - ah’ swear I’ll pull out. No more cum if you don’ want it. Please…?” it’s not because you're a slave to your body that you say yes… it’s because… fuck!

Lucas whimpers as his cock stretches you open.  

Old tears stuck in your lashes fall. The rain keeps peppering the glass, casting everything in soft black blues that are so at odds with the electric red from the car. Your name falls out of his mouth; messy and clouded in desperation. Inside you, his cock twitches and it sends a thrum through your whole body.

You’re not the slave - he is.

It feels fucking good… so damn good, but he’s the one begging and chanting your name like you’re his angel sent from the heavens. Nothing but moans pass your lips, not like him and his constant curses and praises.

“... so tight, it’s warm and s’s’sooo’soft. Fuck! - fuck me, fuck me,” your name slips out between it all as his hips slap carefully and his body shakes with the effort to keep himself above you. Putting the situation aside, you could have been having the best sex of your life in your boyfriend's car. In a different time, this could have been the moment you realize you wanted to marry this man and have his babies and the house on the cul de sac… but you’re a lost girl, and he’s plucked you up off the road, and you're here, laying on your back in his car with two dead bodies in the backseat and one struggling in the trunk while his cock reaches places unknown.

It’s all one long orgasm. Something was wonderfully wrong with his cum, and the only reason you notice your wrist isn’t fucked anymore is because Lucas twists his neck around to plant a sloppy kiss on it as you curl your fingers around the slack of his hood. Your thumb hangs loose, but it doesn’t hurt. Nothing hurts.

Against your lips, Lucas pants. His breath smells of pussy and old soda, but you kiss him anyway, ignoring the fact that the tongue he shoves down your throat had been in your ass not long ago. He kisses like he’s feasting on your cunt, but it doesn’t matter because even the saliva that slips down your chin leaves warm bliss in its wake.

Teeth pull on flesh. Tongues slide and plunder along cheeks and palate, and when Lucas rips his mouth away to admit he’s close, you snarl and ensnare his hips in your legs, keeping him inside as he pounds your aching cunt. Brutal, savage plunges of cock, hammer in all that ecstasy until a pool of heat explodes within.

“... gawd, ah! Fuh’ck!” He snarls, pulling at your thighs and clawing over your soft knee caps, only to slam you down into the uneven jut of leather and plastic with scattered sobs as he cums.

Lucas pants. He gulps down breathes as your stomach tenses with hard contractions; muscles milking his buried length.

The climax chugs on long after Lucas pulls out, kissing your lips and chin and further down. There’s a hazy memory of him slurping his mess out of you, but the nirvana leaves your mind a lazy river of thoughts and moments too unimportant to care about what's real and what's just fancy.

Only two things remain a constant in the miasma: the rain and Lucas. To some degree the car is another factor at play in your basis of reality and make-believe, but only because you’re sure Lucas had strapped you back into the passenger seat at some point and slid your underwear back in place.

In your ten years alone, hopping from one frazzled person to the next, you’d never been raped or drugged… just hungry and tired, always tired and lonely. It was still true, except the next time you open your eyes you’re staring at the golden arches as the rain sprinkles like a halo. The brand cuts against the black stormy sky.

Lucas slides back into the car, letting out heat and the fog latching around your skull. He brings the pungent reek of french fries and burgers with him, and it’s no home cooked meal, but when he throws you a wet grin and lays a bag of heated food on your lap, you smile.

You’re fucked - were fucked - and the situation you find yourself in is more than fucked, but it always has been… just a painfully typical type of fucked. You spare a heavy-lidded look into the backseat where the bodies are frozen in death.

“Go on, baby. It ain’t nothin’ special - naw, I’ll get you something real fucking good when we don’t got doofus and dingus… and ugh, asshat in the back. Can’t let mah girlfriend live off plastic burgers, but… it’ll taste good after that hit you got.”

He’s right, it tastes like heaven. It’s nothing but fat and processed garbage but nothing in your life since this has tasted half as good and you’re ravenous. Lucas hands you a second burger and some fries, and when those are gone, he pushes a milkshake into your hands. Your thumb grips around the cold treat as easily as before.

The whole time, Lucas stares, licking his lips and grinning in private glee.

He thinks he’s got you under his thumb, or maybe he’s smitten, but his plan is going to backfire. Whatever was in that cum has made you healthier… stronger and soon he’ll sleep, and you’ll hog tie him down and hit the road again.

Lucas smiles, tugs on your neck and kisses you - tongue tasting the dregs of vanilla inside your cheeks - and you smirk, already imagining the look on his face when you flip him the bird and run far and wide enough away that he’ll never find you.

**Author's Note:**

> As always thank you for reading! If you have the time, I'd love to hear what everyone thought of this. I wrote this while it was raining over the course of a couple days with this playlist on repeat https://open.spotify.com/user/1248140777/playlist/0AGOTQ9q2Vx0DfAesJ8H88
> 
> This request got long, but what else is new, right? Hope you liked it, Anon. And big thanks to Darth Fucamus for giving this fic a going over and helping me clarify a few things before I posted it. <3
> 
> Tumblr ----> http://brimbrimbrimbrim.tumblr.com/


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